


Cupids Got a SIG Sauer P226R

by kittymsmith



Series: Random Snippets that are Hopefully Funny of Two Dorks In Love: Sherlock and Molly [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cute, F/M, Fluff, Funny, Romance, Series, Sweet Sherlock, THEY'RE DORKS, at least I hope, illegal firearms practice, in his own way but also genuinely, its date night with sherlock, jack the dog is a food stealer, john needs to pay attention to his possessions around sherlock, romantic aint it, toby the cat doesn't approve of mud in his home, what does that mean?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 16:50:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16747816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittymsmith/pseuds/kittymsmith
Summary: “We’re going on a date.”Molly blinked and glanced at him while filling out the paperwork for the body. “We are?”“Yes.”“Right now?”“Tomorrow. Don’t get too excited, it’s not particularly romantic.”------In which Sherlock isn't particularly romantic and Molly commits a felony. Oh, wait, Sherlock does too. Just a normal Friday for two dorks in love.





	1. It's a Date if It's In the Countryside

**Author's Note:**

> Decided to make a series as I have quite a few ideas for little one-shots/short stories of these idiots and the other got good reception. Planning a Christmas fic separate from this, who knows if it'll get done or not, but in the meantime, I hope y'all enjoy this and the future fics to come to the series!
> 
> (If you wanna give an opinion, these are little prompts I've got sitting in a doc:
> 
> Sherlock gets a haircut  
> That one date mentioned (in this fic)  
> Fashion war/shopping spree or something, because Sherlock's dressing gown cost over 1,000 quid what the hell Sherlock
> 
> You got suggestions? I'll hear em'.

Molly was just uncovering a fresh one when Sherlock swept in with his collar up, curls particularly unruly because he hadn’t cut his hair in a while and damp from the rain. Jack, his ever-present border terrier, trotted after in a simply adorable plaid jacket and started sniffing everywhere. Molly was glad to see Sherlock, she usually was, but he was dripping all over the floor she’d just swept so her first reaction was to shoo him out. “Hey, hey out, you’re sopping.”

“Ah, yes, so?” He ran a hand back through his hair and sent a small waterfall onto the floor of the hall. “Jack’s got pawprints through the whole room.”

Molly stopped and looked at the tiny wet trail leading to her overturned lunch box, a rather happy Jack licking his chops and pawing at the empty baggie that had held her sandwich only a moment ago. She narrowed her eyes and looked up at Sherlock, who seemed to realize it might have been a good idea to stop him. “Um. Sorry.”

Molly inhaled deeply and crossed her arms. “You’ve better have come here to buy me lunch.”

He quickly walked over and picked up Jack. “Um, I have now.”

“Would seem.” She wanted to be more annoyed, but, well, now she was getting free lunch. She handed Sherlock a mop and set Jack in a sink and told him to stay, then watched until Sherlock started mopping and went back to her autopsy. She half expected him to idly drag it behind, but he actually mopped. She smiled. “Why are you actually here?”

“What, a man can’t just visit his girlfriend at the morgue?”

“Not when that man is Sherlock Holmes. A case?”

“No.” He walked over till he was standing at the end of the table, watching her work. Most would find it weird, not just being watched while they worked but having someone be interested when their work involved dead bodies being cut up, but Molly didn’t mind. She was sort of pleased about it because no one else she’d dated had ever taken interest in what she did for a living. Sherlock not only was interested but he understood it and he appreciated it-he called it an art. Sweet, bit creepy, but sweet. “Alright, then what are you doing?”

“We’re going on a date.”

Molly blinked and glanced at him while filling out the paperwork for the body. “We are?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

“Tomorrow. Don’t get too excited, it’s not particularly romantic.”

She chuckled. Sherlock wasn’t usually romantic-funny and clever and sweeter than he would ever admit to-but grand romantic gestures weren’t his forte. Granted, it wasn’t Molly’s either. The most romantic thing she’d ever done was get Sherlock his dog, and that was less romantic and more…well, it was a surprise birthday present. Sherlock had the upper hand in it, he’d once arranged to teach her how to dance; he’d moved all the furniture in 221B into the kitchen (that was hilarious), lit some candles, and played a record. He also had some wine because they’d only been “official” for about four months and he was hoping it’d soothe their (his) nerves, but he’d gone and forgotten to get glasses, and the furniture blocked off the kitchen, so they’d ended up drinking straight from the bottle and had a bloody hilarious night (and a bloody awful hangover. Maybe there was another bottle of wine? She couldn’t remember).

“Molly?”

She shook her head and looked over. “Sorry, long day. Um, what are we doing?”

“I’m going to teach you how to shoot.”

Molly furrowed her brow. “Sherlock, I don’t have a license for tha-“

“Now you do,” he handed her an envelope.

She blinked rapidly and opened it, finding it was indeed the proper paperwork for a handgun, which she had absolutely no reason to have and was left very confused. “How-“

“Who’s my big brother?”

“But, but,” she set it aside and went to file her papers, “but I haven’t ever shot a gun before, Sherlock! I haven’t taken the classes or-“

“Yes, yes, dear. That’s why I’m taking you out to learn tomorrow. Really, it’s simple.”

“Ah!” She didn’t know if it was an “ah, can’t believe this!” or “ah, you never get a normal weekend dating this bloody nutter!” but either way she was not quite looking forward to it. “And how is this a date?”

“Well, it’s in the country si-“

“We're not even going to a proper range?”

“What? No. This is totally illegal.”

“Did you ever actually _ask_ Mycroft or just steal his systems passcode again?”

He paused. “Yes.”

“What?”

“I asked. He said no, so _then_ I stole his systems passcode.”

“Sherlock!”

He put on a grin, the charming one he used to convince her to do ridiculous things with a stupidly high success rate. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“Shooting in the countryside?”

“Yes. I’m bringing sandwiches.”

“You mean you’re asking Mrs. Hudson to make sandwiches.”

He paused. The grin was sheepish. His damp curls dipped in front of one eye and his hands were clasped behind his back so he looked like a naughty schoolboy. He was adorable. And stupid. _Heaven help me. I’m stupid_. “Yeeeeeeeeeessss…”

“Oh heavens, Sherlock.” She gestured to the papers, “why, then? I mean, I’ll go yes, might as well, but why?”

He looked at her like it was obvious, which it probably was. To him. “I want you to be safe.”

She stopped and looked at him. Of course, of course. He was being a sweet little worrywart. Sigh. “Ah.”

“You have been coming along a lot lately,” he continued while walking over, grabbing her lunch box from the floor and putting it on the counter when he came to stand beside her. Jack hopped out of the sink and ran along the countertops until he was beside them, tail wagging. “And I simply won’t have you not being prepared for the worst. Because it can and will happen, Molly. It won’t take a mastermind, just an arsehole with a gun; unfortunately common, you know.” His eyes were so dark and serious though he quipped, “I mean, I’ve got one.”

Molly smiled briefly, then got up on her toes and gave him a kiss on a cheek. “Yes, and you’re the biggest arsehole of them all.”

He beamed.


	2. Sweet Blankness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter because

Molly was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and toting a shoulder bag with crisps and little bags of baby carrots. She’d just gotten her beanie on over her ears, forecast called for plenty of wind in West Sussex, when the doorbell rang. She walked over, chipper despite not really looking forward to shooting-she’d never really been fond of guns, but she wasn’t daft enough to not realize following John and Sherlock around would eventually lead to the need for one. Hell, maybe she’d end up liking it. At the very least, it would be a day out of the city.

 She opened the door to Sherlock, who stepped into the doorway and gave a slight, respectful nod to Toby. The cat, sat high on a shelf near the ceiling, surveying his kingdom, might have nodded back, as if giving him permission to enter. Sherlock then bent and pecked her on the lips with a quick little smile. “Molly.”

“Sherlock.” She smiled back, then cocked her head. “Is that the scarf I got you for Christmas?”

Sherlock smiled more, brushing the dark blue and gray plaid with his fingers. “It is. Forecast calls for wind, much as it’s all rubbish.”

She smiled more. “What, the weather, or the weather?”

“Yes.”

She laughed. “You brought sandwiches?”

“I did.” They walked out and Molly locked her door, then went to the waiting cab- _God, how much did he spend in a month on cab fare? Jesus_ -and got in, where Molly found a rather cute little picnic basket.

“Aww. Nice touch.”

He glanced over from directing the cabbie and sat back once he was done. “Yes, yes thank you. I definitely thought you would like it, definitely not Mrs. Hudson’s doing in any way, shape, or form.”

She snorted. “Oh, well. You know now. Got that stored away?”

He tapped his temple. “In your room.”

She grinned. They passed the cab ride in relative silence, watching the world out the window. Molly was sitting in the middle and scooted over to lean her head on Sherlock’s shoulder, then readjusted as he put his arm around her, big and warm and soft. She’d been sort of surprised how warm he was when they’d first started dating; he’d been rather awkward about touch in the beginning and she’d been worried she was forcing it on him, but then there’d been that night with the wine and the dancing and he’d admitted it was just strange. Not because he was afraid of the hugs and kisses, but because he wasn’t used to _not_ pretending, to _wanting_ them, to being curious and having a desire to be close to someone differently than he’d ever been close to John. He’d even said, sounding quite like he was thinking aloud, that the closest he’d gotten was Irene (which prompted Molly to corner John for an investigation, as she really hadn’t ever cleared up what exactly was going on with all that until then) but she wasn’t a child. Whatever had happened between them, for something had certainly happened, didn’t concern her.

The skyline became suddenly absent of tall brick and shifted from greyish to blue. Horns and shouts and white noise gave way to almost deafening tires on asphalt and eventually dirt. Molly let her mind wander away from her musings and recollections and sink into the comfortable blankness suitable for passing long car rides, where all the best thoughts happened but were gone soon as one was shaken out of the state. She wondered, before she completely zoned out, if Sherlock was able to go to that place. Probably not. The last thing she recalled before completely disappearing into the blankness was how sorry she felt for him.


	3. Sherlock Bloody Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably not my strongest fanfic overall but I had quite a bit of fun with it. Hope you've enjoyed! If you have a suggestion/idea for a future shortfic/one-shot I'm all ears. :)

Sherlock jostled her into the present at a small train station, old and worn and made mostly of cobblestone. How charming. He slipped out, she grabbed the picnic basket and followed, nearly dropping it on her way out. “Lord! What did you put in here, Sherlock, pound cakes?”

“No.” He paid and stepped away from the taxi as it u-turned on the dusty dirt road. “Guns.”

“With the sandwiches?!” She flipped open the lid and yes, right there were two handguns, one on either side of the basket, sandwiches and water bottles nestled in between. “Sherlock!”

“Are you really that surprised?” He quirked an eyebrow.

She really wasn’t. “I shouldn’t be, but I am.”

“Ah, good. I’m not quite predictable. Don’t want to become boring-shall I carry it?”

Molly had no intention of letting him _not_ carry it and passed it on. “I thought you said we were going to West Sussex. Isn’t that quite longer than this?”

“I said nearly west,” he started walking and she ran after, grappling for and eventually seizing his hand. He slowed down a little but she was still operating at a bit of a trot-no wonder he kept so fit. “We would have been in the car for an hour and a half-or more given that cabbie’s need to crawl on the dirt like a reptile-but this is approximately 45 minutes away from London and equally remote for practice as anywhere further. The nearest village is several kilometers behind us, only the stationmaster and the shop clerk here. A quick jaunt through those trees that way,” he gestured to a tree line on the other side of the tracks, “and we’ll be far enough.”

“Guns are loud, though.” She took the steps two at a time to keep up with him and then leaped in sync over the tracks. It was a bit like flying.

He snorted as they half slid down the incline, past the trees, and into a tree-dotted grassland that went on for eternity, “indeed, but the only people within a several kilometer radius are both half deaf.”

She huffed, partially because of _course_ he’d thought of everything, but also because the earth was slick and sticky from the rain that week, making it hard to keep up without tripping. Eventually, they reached a spot near a cluster of trees where Sherlock seemed to magically pull some paper targets from his Mary-Bloody-Poppins pockets, unfold them, and hang them with string from little branches. Then he came back and took both guns, which looked exactly the same to Molly, checking and loading his quickly, then turning to Molly with the other. “Hold out your hands.”

She swallowed and did. He placed it gently, flat on its side. It was shiny, heavy, and cold. A shiver ran through her as she remembered a few weeks ago pulling up a body meant for autopsy, but she picked the wrong one. Long day, she guessed, but it ended up being a young man who committed suicide by gunshot to the head. The gun felt heavier.

“What can you tell me about it? What parts do you know?” His hair was a slight mess in the wind. His back was ramrod straight, hands clasped behind it. Full teacher mode.

“Erm…” She tried to remember every action movie she’d ever seen. She pointed to the hole at the end. “This is the…muzzle-“

“What does the muzzle do? I don’t expect you to be technical.”

“It’s where the bullet comes out.”

“Good.”

She shook her head. She was in year 10 again, and her biology teacher was pointing at the frog and asking what every part was and what it did. The only difference now was she didn’t have a textbook hidden on the stool where he couldn’t see. “This is the trigger,” she pointed to the little lever looking thing, got a nod, “this is the sight-the front one, that’s the…back? Back one and that…is the…place where the bullet comes out,” she pointed at the little indent that looked like a door, Sherlock nodded again.

“More or less, it’s where the expended cases are ejected. Where do you put the bullets in?” She hesitated, feeling quite simple because that should be the most obvious, then pointed at the end of the handle. Another nod. She smiled. _Know quite a bit more than you thought, don’t you Molly? Ha._ “Right then. Unload the magazine.”

 _Never mind_. It just looked like they pressed it and popped out in the movies, so she tried that, which didn’t work. She tried it again for no reason whatsoever, but this time she noticed a little dot. She slid her thumb over and pressed and the magazine released and she easily pulled it out. She looked up at Sherlock. The corners of his mouth quirked up.

“There you are. Now, I’ll tell you a bit about this model.” He went on to explain a little bit of everything, from body and function to caliber and recoil. He’d set her up with a SIG Sauer P226R loaded with 9mm. It had been a long popular military model, John had the same, in fact; it was powerful, accurate, and could load a caliber that could kill a bear, probably. After spending an extensive portion of time on safety Sherlock picked up the other gun, same model, pointed, and shot the target in the chest from several yards away. The paper swung and twisted from the impact. He pointed to the target next to it. “Give it a shot.”

“Um. Just like that?”

“Yep. Mind the recoil, hold it like this, “ he got behind her and placed her hands in position on the handle and trigger. “There, hold it in front of you like so, see the sight? Yes, just like that.”

She adjusted, she looked down the sight. She tried to keep her thoughts on what she was doing rather than what Sherlock was doing-guiding her hands so gently, resting his chin on her shoulder and mumbling about considering wind speed and remembering not to jump at the recoil. Mm. Maybe there was something romantic in firing off high powered pocket-sized killing machines. Go figure.

“Fire when ready,” he said softly before stepping away. Her breath stuttered with nerves. She felt the wind against her cheek, she looked down the sight and closed one eye.

She fired.

And she missed.

Sherlock paused. “Well – well look there, you nicked it on the right. That’s something, isn’t it?”

Her cheeks were hot with embarrassment, but she managed to laugh. “You? Complimenting failure?”

“Thought I’d give it a shot. It was total rubbish, but you’ll do better. You always do.” She smiled a bit, aimed, and fired again. This time she got it more on the paper but still not the body outline. Took in the wind, another shot, better that time. Some more tips from Sherlock and some more practice and she began consistently hitting the body, then the chest area, the head once. The recoil didn’t bother her after a while. Sherlock came up beside her at one point, taking the gun with one hand and handing her a sandwich with the other. “I told you, you always do better.”

Molly’s cheeks hurt from smiling. She loved Sherlock, oh she loved him, and she only wished what she loved would poke its head out from its shell more often. But, in the same breath, she liked knowing it was just for her, because of her. She liked knowing she helped him too.

They ate their lunch, then shot some more. She tried out a .40 round in Sherlock’s gun. He disappeared at one point and came back with a shotgun from the store clerk because of course he’d managed that, gave it to her, warned her of the recoil, and then doubled over laughing when it was a bit more than expected which, combined with the slick earth, knocked her flat on her arse. She shouted at him though it was still funny, got up with her jeans all muddied and gave him a little push, just a little one. But his knees were already bent so it was just enough for him to fall on his backside. Molly started laughing, he jokingly tried to trip her.

He accidentally caught her ankle and she fell forward on top of him so the whole of his coat and half his hair ended up muddy. Molly stood up on her hands and knees, looking down at him.

“You look ridiculous.”

Giggles escaped through his words, “o-one would assume. Least I wasn’t knocked over by a bloody gun.”

“Git,” she lightly whacked his cheek, leaving a mud print. He simply cackled, grabbed her shoulders, and rolled over so she was as muddy as him.

 She flipped him back, then him back to her, and this went back and forth till they ended up rolling around and getting muddy head to toe, and once they tried to stand, they slipped around so horribly they mostly fell down and laughed again. Molly hadn’t had a good stupid laugh like it in years and she doubted Sherlock had either; he tried seriously to stand and it was like a baby giraffe learning to walk, but eventually he gained purchase and was able to stumble out of the muddy rut they’d created and pulled Molly up and out, both reduced now to sore-chested giggles.

“Y-you’re ridiculous.” She wiped her hands off wherever her coat wasn’t already muddy and then rolled it up and sacrificed her tote to hold it.

“I’m ridiculous? You’re ridiculous.” He copied her and managed to barely fit his coat in her bag. “I can’t believe that just happened.”

She grinned. “Oh, believe it.”

He tried to look at her seriously, but he was still riding the endorphin high and could only continue giggling.

The train wouldn’t let them on. so they called a cab, which nearly didn’t let them in. The mud had dried by then but they still left a trail wherever they went. Finally. Sherlock just gave him extra quid and they got in, leaning against each other in exhausted warmth. Molly fell asleep and was woken by Sherlock's gentle prodding when they came to her flat. Sherlock followed her up the steps.

“You want to come over for dinner? John’s cooking.”

“Mm, your place?”

“Mine.”

They went in. Toby was waiting at the door, but upon seeing the state of his mistress promptly skittered over to the kitchen counter. “Sure. Sandwiches didn’t really do it.” He nodded and began to walk past her; and she grabbed his arm, pointing warningly at him. “You go straight to the bath. You’re not tracking anything on my bedroom carpet again. It took forever to get out last time.”

“Well, last time it was blood.”

“ _Bath_.”

He shook his finger in the “ah, gotcha” manner and immediately turned to the bathroom. Soon as the water was running Molly washed her hair, head, and hands in the kitchen sink, stripped naked and ran to her room. Sherlock joined her as she was looking for her comfy shirt.

“Ooo, this is exciting.”

“Ha,” she chuckled. She’d laid out his clothes he kept there on the bed so when she sensed him sneaking up behind her she pointed. “Ah, ah, dress.”

“Drat.” He snapped his fingers, making her giggle. They both finished dressing, though Sherlock not without trying to sneak up on her twice more, unsuccessfully. He looked at Toby when he walked in. “You’ve simply taught her too well, sir.”

He meowed.

“Mm, yes, yes. I’ll try and remember that.”

He made a little “bruum bruum” noise.

“Really? Alright. I shall try it next time, thank you, Tobias.”

“Are you having a good chat?” Molly turned around.

Sherlock looked to Toby, then her, then gave a quick nod. “He’s giving me oodles of advice on pouncing.”

She rolled her eyes. They were all ready to go a few moments later, Molly grabbing Toby and bringing him along. He liked Jack well enough, and he _really_ liked the fire at 221B, which Molly didn’t have and John was sure to have roaring.

“We’ve got one more,” Sherlock called as they walked in. John poked his head out and waved.

“Ello. You two look exhausted.”

“Spent all day shooting,” Molly said, letting Toby down and picking up Rosie as she ran over from the kitchen, Jack on her heels, then after a moment passed her to Sherlock.

“Shooting?”

“Yep! Sherlock took me out to teach me.”

“Do you even have a license?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock responded before returning to whatever conversation he was having with Rosie. Molly wandered into the kitchen where John was leaning against the counter and watching the steamy lid of a one-pot meal. He looked up and nodded at her.

“So, you like it?”

“It was interesting. I’ve got worrywart’s permission to follow you two around now,” she joked.

“Hey. Reasonable concern,” Sherlock argued, walking in and dropping the basket. He took out the gun he’d let Molly use and handed it over. “This is yours now, by the way.” She blinked and decided to just stick it in the middle of the table where Rosie couldn’t reach it. Then he grabbed the other and passed it to John. “And yours, John.”

John blinked. “Wait, you took my gun again?”

“Of course.”

John quickly reached to his holster and pulled out an identical gun to the one Sherlock had just handed him. “Then what’s this?!”

“Oh, that’s an airsoft. Swapped it out when you visited this morning.” Sherlock took it, aimed at the wall and shot. A bright orange bullet embedded itself between the two windows.

“You dick.” John snatched his gun from the table and secured it in his holster. Sherlock shrugged and put Rosie down, who went quickly to attach herself to John’s leg.

Molly realized something and looked at Sherlock. “Wait, so that’s John’s gun, and this is mine…isn’t that, well, extraordinarily illegal?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Yes.”

“What? Why not use your own?”

“Use my own? I don’t own anything besides the revolver. Technically it’s an “inoperable antique.”” He made air quotes with his fingers.

“Then what do you shoot with?”

“John’s gun.”

“But if you’ve got a license-“

He snorted. “I haven’t got a license.”

Molly stared at him, looked at the gun on the table that she suddenly had to wonder the origins of, then lightly dropped her head on the kitchen table. “Only you, Sherlock Bloody Holmes.”

 

 


End file.
